My Albatross
by Flash Foreward
Summary: A drunken Lassiter is discussing his bad luck charm with a bartender, and winds up asking the bartender to call that very same bad luck charm to take him home. He finds out that an albatross doesn't necessarily mean bad luck. preslash. coarse language


**A/N:** Inspired by a contest on another site to use Cliche sayings. I chose "Albatross around your neck."

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych, Serenity, or the Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

**My Albatross**

"He's like…," Carlton begins, but he trails off, watching the bartender carefully. The man is wiping down the bar. He hardly seems to be listening, but he's been responding adequately so far, and Carlton decides to continue. "It's like that Captain. In that poem."

"Which one?" the bartender asks, tossing the rag he's been using over his shoulder and gesturing to Carlton's empty glass. Carlton nods and slides it forward, teetering dangerously on his bar stool. He waits until the glass is filled and returned to him before continuing.

"With the bird," he says, managing to sip his drink and gesture at his neck at the same time.

"An albatross?" the bartender offers. Carlton nods, slamming his glass down. Liquid sloshes out and trickles down over his fingers.

"That's it!" he shouts triumphantly. "He's like an albatross hanging on my neck. Like that poem…," he trials off again, looking to the bartender for help.

"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," he says in a bored voice.

"Ding, ding, ding, ding!" Carlton cries out. "Get that man a kewpie doll!" The bartender shakes his head and expertly extracts Carlton's still half-filled glass from his grip.

"Is there someone I can call?" he asks of the inebriated detective. "Someone who'll come and get you?" Carlton looks lost in thought for a moment, almost sober, then reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a business card. He holds it out, nodding his head repeatedly.

"Call the albatross," he says.

_ "Instead of the cross, the Albatross  
About my neck was hung."  
-"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge-_

Shawn groaned and rolled away from the shrill ring that pierced his pleasant dreams. He felt his body roll from the soft comfort of his mattress to what felt like nothing and, with only a brief moment of realization allowing him to prepare, he collided heavily with the hardwood floor of his bedroom.

"Damn it," he muttered, pushing himself up. His palms stung from their contact with the floor, and his chin was throbbing as well. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, trying to remember why he'd been rolling in the first place.

Then another ring rose up, filling the silence of his room, and he groaned again. He levered himself up and crawled across his bed to reach his cell phone where it lay on the bedside table. He debated letting it go to voicemail, thinking it was his father with some inane request; but when he glanced at the number and saw it wasn't one he recognized, he flipped the phone open and pressed it to his ear.

"Hello?" he asked, his voice groggy.

_"Hey,"_ came a gruff voice. _"You the albatross?"_

"Huh? The what?"

_"What's his name?"_ the voice asked, though it was muffled. Shawn guessed the caller was consulting with someone else. He waited only a few moments before the voice came back, unmuffled. _"You Shawn Spencer?"_

"Yes…," Shawn said, warily, now more awake.

_"Can you come down to O'Brien's and pick up...what was your name again? Huh, okay…Can you come down here and pick up Lassy?"_

Shawn shook his head, trying to decide if he'd heard correctly. He squinted into the darkness of his room, staring at the blank wall behind his bed, trying to decide if this was all some elaborate prank the head Detective had cooked up.

"O'Brien's pub?" he finally asked.

_"Dunno any other O'Brien's, d'you?"_the caller asked. Shawn sighed.

"All right, I'll be right there."

As he hung up, he distinctly heard the man say _"The Albatross is on his way."_ He shook his head. If it were anyone other than Detective Carlton Lassiter, he'd be almost certain this was a prank.

_"Way I remember it, albatross was a ship's good luck, 'til some idiot killed it."  
-Captain Malcolm Reynolds; Serenity-_

The first thing Carlton notices is the pain in his head. The second thing he notices is that he's lying on a couch and not a bed. He opens his eyes, but it's too bright and it sets his head on fire, so he has to clench them shut again. He groans and tries to roll over, but there isn't enough space on the couch and soon he's tumbling to the floor.

"Careful, Lassy-face," comes a voice he recognizes, a voice he never in a million years wanted to hear first thing in the morning. Shawn Spencer's voice. It does nothing good for his headache, and he grits his teeth to keep from shouting, knowing that would only make things worse.

"Where am I, Spencer?" he demands, his voice low and quiet, his eyes still closed. He decides that it's best to lie still, and he waits on the cold floor for Shawn's answer.

"Currently?" the man says around a mouthful of something. "You're on my floor."

"Why am I on your floor?"

"Well, you see, you rolled off the couch."

"Damn it, Spencer!" Carlton shouts, he winces as the volume sets his head to pounding again. He pries his eyes open and pulls himself back up onto the leather couch. He doesn't bother glancing over his shoulder at Shawn, he's sure the other man is smiling.

He rubs his forefingers against his temples and groans.

"You really are my albatross," he grumbles.

"So, Lassy-face!" Shawn says, as though the outburst never occurred. Carlton hears the clink of a dish being set down on a counter, and the soft patter of shoeless footsteps, and soon Shawn is sinking down onto the couch cushion beside him. "Why were you gettin' smashed last night?"

"None of your business, Spencer," Carlton grumbles, trying to shift away from Shawn, but his legs get tangled in sheets that fell when he rolled off the couch and he nearly hits the floor again. Shawn quickly catches him by the arm and pulls him back up, pushing him back to lean against the back cushions of the couch.

"Now, now, Lassy," Shawn says, mock-scolding. "You had that kind bartender call _me_ last night to get you, thus making it my business." Carlton shakes his head, but it's quick to protest and he halts the motion. He lets out a long held in sigh of exasperation and closes his eyes.

"Fine," he says. "I was…thinking."

"Hard to think when you're that full of scotch, Carlton," Shawn says. His voice is oddly serious and Carlton opens his eyes to look at the supposed psychic.

"It helps," he growls, not wanting to concede the point. Shawn shrugs.

"Not in my experience," he mumbles. Carlton scoffs, earning himself a glare from the younger man, but he ignores it. They sit in silence for awhile, and Shawn's the one to break it. Of course. "Do you really think I'm bad luck?" he asks.

"What?"

"You called me an albatross."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did," Shawn insists. "Even the bartender was calling me albatross." Carlton shook his head.

"Must've meant someone el…," he starts, but trails off as the events of the night before slowly return to him. They're cloudy, but they're there. "Oh," is all he says. Shawn nods. He leans close to Carlton, pressing his lips against the detective's ear.

"Y'know, Carly," he says. "The albatross used to be good luck."

And, with that, Shawn stands and returns to his cereal, leaving Carlton to stare blankly at the wall, swearing to himself that he will never drink again.


End file.
